


Imprinted on My Heart

by lumberjackbeards



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, letterpress printing au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-20
Updated: 2014-02-20
Packaged: 2018-01-13 03:05:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1210348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumberjackbeards/pseuds/lumberjackbeards
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire is passionate; Combeferre is in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Imprinted on My Heart

  Combeferre had been walking this route to his university every day for months, and yet somehow he had never noticed the small print shop that was only two doors down from the coffee shop he would visit on an almost daily basis before he went to his first class.

  (When he would later tell this to Grantaire, he would be informed that while Combeferre had never noticed him, he had always noticed Combeferre. Grantaire had been hoping that he would stop in practically since he had started walking past the shop on his way to class.)

  But one day Combeferre _had_ noticed it, though it was on one of the many days it was closed. It was a Tuesday, and he was late for his first class. He had been up with Enjolras the entirety of the night before, which caused him to wake up late. Waking up late meant having to fight with Courfeyrac for the shower; a fight he was always destined to lose.

  He came to a frantic halt just past the print shop. Realizing which route he had taken, he cursed under his breath. The route to the coffee shop took ten minutes longer than the most direct way from his apartment. He had gone this way out of pure habit, and he cursed himself for not thinking. He spun around to look back at the path, calculating whether it would be quicker to turn back, or continue on.

  As he was trying to make his mind up, he spotted a monstrous crouch of heavy metal sitting in the window of one of the shops. Temporarily forgetting his tardiness, he approached the window. As he walked closer, he realized that it was actually a printing press. Turn of the century if he had to guess. Fascinated, he stood in front of the shop, looking it over.

  You wouldn’t expect it, but it was quite beautiful. It might have been a great hunk of a thing, but it had a charm of its own. It was obviously loved by whoever owned it: it was spotless and was polished so that it shone as well as the old iron could.

  He stood there for a moment more, but when his situation came back to him, he sprinted down the road with a curse; not sparing the shop another thought.

  It took a few more weeks for the shop to catch his interest once more. He normally didn’t have classes this late in the day, so he never really found a reason to come this way in the evening. Today, however, he had gotten permission to sit in on a lecture. He still had plenty of time before the class started, and it was a beautiful evening, so he had decided to take the longer path to the university.

  As he was strolling down the street, he noticed movement in the window of the shop with the printing press. He was surprised: every time he passed the shop before, it had been locked up tight. He walked the few paces over to the front window, not being able to help his curiosity. He delighted at what he saw.

  A man was standing at the press in the window, pressing down on a lever, spinning a large wheel. Combeferre was rather shocked that such an old machine was still operational. Checking his watch, he decided he could afford to stand and watch the process for a little while.

  The printer fed each piece of paper into the machine one at a time, removing it, inspecting it, and moving on to the next one. It seemed like a tedious process, but the final product must be worth it; he would hardly go to so much trouble if it wasn’t.

  After a few moments the man had to stop in order to apply more ink to the plate. When he did he noticed Combeferre standing in the window and gave him a small wave and a smile before turning back to his work. Before, Combeferre had been solely focused on the machine; now he studied the operator.

  He found that watching him was just as interesting as watching the press, if not more so. As he studied him, he found it hard to look away. It wasn’t that he was particularly attractive; it was just… the passion and love he displayed as he worked was incredibly charming. His focus was entirely on his work, even though it was obvious that this was something he had mastered long ago. Combeferre couldn’t imagine it was comfortable work, having to work the pedal and the wheel for long periods of time, but the man had such a quiet happiness in his eyes, Combeferre couldn’t help being drawn to him.

  After a few more moments, Combeferre checked his watch and realized that if he wanted to make his class, he better start moving along. As he walked away, he checked the hours on the door: Monday through Friday, appointments only. Saturday, open to the public.

 

  That Saturday he had a lunch appointment with Courfeyrac, so he was unable to visit the shop until just after three. As he entered, he found a smile tugging at his lips as he was hit with the prevalent scent of ink. It wasn’t overpowering, but it was an obvious reminder that products were printed by hand.

  He walked over to the rack of greeting cards that took up the entirety of the west wall and looked over the cards with amusement. They all had intricate designs on them, and to his delight, the majority of them were accompanied by horribly cheesy puns.

  He saw a group of cards featuring atomically correct body parts, and his face lit up. The puns were truly horrible, but he found himself snickering as he read them. Looking through them, he made a mental note to send Bossuet here to buy all of them for Joly. There was no doubt that they would make his entire week.

  There was a couple browsing as well, and when the printer came out of the back, they went over to talk to him. Combeferre smiled over at him, and he smiled back before turning to the couple who were apparently interested in commissioning him for some wedding invitations.

  Combeferre was not in the habit of lying to himself, so he would admit that the main reason he had come was to talk to the printer. And while he _was_ curious about his work, he knew that he was hardly going to complain if he learnt more about the man himself along the way.

  As he waited for the couple to leave, he continued to look around the shop. There were some handcrafted sculptures on a shelf, along with a few antique toys, and the walls were dotted with posters and art from local artists. There was a bookshelf on the other wall, and he noted with a smile that they were all independently published and the majority of them featured queer or POC narratives.

  The shop owner was still in conversation with the couple. Combeferre wondered just how long a person could talk about wedding invitations. He realized this thought was a bit childish, (and he knew that if Courfeyrac was acting like that, Combeferre would reprimand him for it in an instant,) but it seemed their conversation was endless. He inspected the cards once more, just for something to do.

  He heard someone clear their throat behind him and he jumped, startled. He turned around and there was the shop owner.

  “I take it you really wanted to speak to me?” A smile was playing on his lips, not even trying to hide his amusement.

  “Was I that obvious?” Combeferre asked, returning the smile easily.

  “You’ve been staring at the same card for ten minutes,” He pointed out, and Combeferre laughed. “You’re window guy, aren’t you? I see you walk by all the time.”

  “I didn’t realize anyone was ever in here.” He mumbled, “But yes, I suppose I am window guy. I prefer Combeferre, though.”

  “Combeferre,” He repeated, tasting the syllables. “I’m Grantaire.” He offered his hand to shake, and Combeferre smiled as they shook. Grantaire held it a beat too long, and his smirk made it obvious that he knew exactly what he was doing.

  “So you wanted to know what I do here, I take it? You must really be interested since you bothered waiting this long while I took care of that couple. You _do_ seem like the overly curious type, though.” Combeferre looked over to the press and nodded.

  “Yeah; I’d love to hear about it.” Combeferre didn’t even bother trying to hide how eager he was. Courfeyrac always made fun of him for the way he reacted when stumbling across something new, and printing presses were completely uncharted territory for him. He understood the basics and how Gutenberg’s press had made books more accessible to the public, but that was the extent of his knowledge. “The press in your window is obviously quite old, and I was shocked to see you using it the other day.”

  Grantaire’s eyes were shining; nothing made him happier to find someone who cared about his job, archaic as it is. “Of course! I call the one in the window Athena. She’s from 1913 and I use her, and all my other machines, for letterpress printing. But she’s my oldest and I use her solely for the typography. For the actual artwork and designs I use a newer press. I’m such a pretentious hipster about it; I refuse to use the more modern machines and computers and all that shit.” He laughed before continuing. 

  “But Athena! Athena is my baby; I’ve had her for-” He paused, making a soft humming noise as he considered. “Six years now? She’s a bit inefficient; typesetting takes forever and all composition and proofing has to be done backwards, and believe me, it’s a _tremendous_ pain to have to pedal and spin the wheel to make 500 wedding invitations in only a few hours, but it’s worth it when they’re finished. And you wouldn’t believe how cathartic it is. ”

  Combeferre grinned; it was obvious how happy it made Grantaire to talk about his work: he practically _glowed_. He was waving his hands about as he spoke, and a few times Combeferre was even worried he’d knock over a can of ink that was sitting on a stool just a bit too close to where Grantaire was standing.

  “Does she break very often?” He asked, not even realizing he was slipping into feminine pronouns as well. “I’d imagine it’s hard to find someone to work on her.”

  Grantaire let out a bark of laughter, rough and sharp, but still happy. “Oh, it is. They’re also incredibly expensive.” He leaned closer to Combeferre and whispered conspiratorially, “Just between you and me, the closest handyman requires a contract for your _soul_.” He pulled away and laughed at his own joke; Combeferre found it endearing, but at the same time achingly familiar. No doubt Grantaire would get along quite well with Joly and Bossuet. “Over the years I’ve learnt to save the expense and fix her myself.”

  Still fascinated and more than a tiny bit enamored, Combeferre pressed on. “You said you used her only for typography. What do you use for the designs?”

  “I use a newer press; still old, mind you, just new _er_. I still have to cast stereoplates, but the end result is excellent. Plus the machine is new enough that I don’t have any pedals to push; I just stand there and swap out the cards. It’s still tedious, but I’m not as sore in the evening.”

  “And you sell greeting cards, but that couple was talking about wedding invitations, and for the majority of the week you’re only open for appointments. I assume you make the most money through commissions?” 

  “Oh yeah,” Grantaire huffed in mock annoyance. “Dealing with brides-to-be, or grooms-to-be, or nonbinary- fuck, what’s the gender-neutral version of bride and groom?”

  “You could just say partners, you know.” He had included trans identities; Combeferre was practically in love at this point.

  “They’re not really partners at this point because they’re going to be married, and partners has more of a-” He made a vague gesture with his hands, “ _not_ -married ring to it. Yes, that was a pun; yes, I realize it was awful.” He laughed, “But okay, sure. Having to deal with brides-to-be, grooms-to-be, partners-to-be all day. Living the dream here.”

  “That bad?” Combeferre clucked in faux sympathy.

  “No, not really. A few are impossible to please, but I mean hey. How would I keep this place open without them? Besides, some of the invitations are really fun to make. Once I had to do this amazing-” Grantaire stopped in the middle of the sentence, looking at him with concern. “Am I boring you? Fuck, this has to be boring as all hell. Here I am just rambling on and on about machines and weddings to a guy I just met. This wasn’t a good first impression at all was it?”

  Combeferre smiled. “No, I really _am_ interested. I wouldn’t be asking all these questions if I wasn’t. Besides, it’s always nice to talk to people who truly love their jobs. ”

  “You’re a piece of work, aren’t you?” Grantaire’s eyes were warm as he smiled at him. “If you’re really interested, would you like to come by sometime during the week to see how it works?”

   “Really?” He asked, not even trying to hide how delighted he was by the offer. “That would be fantastic!”

  “Great.” He noticed that a small bit of tension left Grantaire’s shoulders when he accepted, as if he had been worried that he would have been turned down. “I won’t even subject you to my horrible taste in music.”

  “I’m sure it’s not that bad.”

  “It’s pretty bad.” Grantaire warned, running a hand through his hair bashfully.

  “I have recordings of Gregorian chants on my iPod.” At Grantaire’s baffled look, he explained. “It does wonders when you can’t sleep. The most relaxing thing I’ve found.”

  “Whatever you say.” He responded, only slightly sarcastic.

  “It works!” Combeferre insisted.

  “You’ll just have to prove it.” He challenged.

  “Oh no,” Combeferre smiled, “I never share my chants until at least the second date, and I only _just_ met you.”

  It was a bit hard to tell due to his dark skin, but Combeferre could have sworn a quick blush made its way across Grantaire’s cheeks. He quickly recovered himself, and strolled casually over to the counter. “Ah well, we’ll just have to rectify that, now won’t we?” He asked, scrawling something on the back of a card before returning to where he had left Combeferre.

  “On the back, you’ll find my cell number. Call me whenever you want.” Grantaire handed it over with a wink before tucking his hands into the pockets of his worn jeans.

 “I definitely will.” Combeferre looked over the card, trying to ignore the tiny fluttering in the pit of his stomach. “It was a pleasure.”

  Combeferre threw him one more smile before ducking out the door. He looked over the card and his hand before tucking it into his wallet. After a few paces, he turned back towards the shop and saw Grantaire standing at the window, watching him with a smile.

 

  To be quite frank, Combeferre could hardly remember a more successful date. Grantaire was incredibly intelligent, and he found him to be quite engaging. He was well-versed in almost every form of the arts; art history, cinema, literature; their taste in books was practically identical. He was also seemed to be more than willing to argue about politics, and while their opinions were rather far apart, Combeferre couldn’t find it in him to mind. Besides, he was definitely someone Combeferre could debate with, as at one point their conversation devolved into an argument about Edgar Degas, the bathing women series, and feminism. 

  “You have got to be kidding me!” Combeferre exclaimed, leaning across the table in disbelief. “The series cannot be considered feminist in any sense of the word! It’s practically the 19th century version of creep shots. The paintings feature naked women who are supposedly not aware that they’re being observed. How are you not finding that horrifying? It’s objectification in every sense of the word.”

  “ _You_ have got to be kidding _me_ ,” Grantaire almost knocked over his wine glass as he waved his hand, beginning his counter argument. Combeferre paused a moment to consider how endearing it was that Grantaire spoke with his whole body: waving his hands about, running them through his hair, tapping his foot in irritation. “The women weren’t being _objectified_ in the least. The whole point of the series was that women are not objects for male gaze.

  These women may be naked, but the paintings are hardly erotic. They’re in unflattering, natural poses. They may be naked, but for the most innocent of reasons. They’re taking care of themselves and it’s incredibly beautiful. Degas made a whole series of painting of women who yes, they were nude, but the thing was _they weren’t nude for the viewers_. That was kind of huge at the time, I mean, in like 20 years Marcel Duchamp would have his art refused from the Société des Artistes Indépendants because he ‘wasn’t _respecting_ the nude’ by having her walk down stairs. Nudes were supposed to be less-” Grantaire stopped to make a vague motion with his hands “ _vertical_. They’re supposed to lounge and be pleasurable for the audience- cough cough _men_ to look upon.

  I mean, yes, even Degas said he designed the paintings to look ‘… as if someone were watching through a keyhole,’ but it’s still not like a creep shot. It’s not supposed to be masturbatory material; it’s the opposite of sensuality. The entire point is that nakedness does not always about sex.”

  He paused once more, running a hand through his hair and taking a sip of his wine. “I don’t know; my argument’s going in circles at this point. Just look at _The Tub_ -”

  “Which one?” Combeferre interrupted with a sarcastic grin. “They’re almost _all_ named that.”

  “Right.” Grantaire nodded. “You know, the blue one. Where the woman’s in the shallow tub, leaning over to pick up the sponge. It’s like, the best painting in the series. The one with the amazing lapis lazuli curtains. Christ, that color is amazing. I have spent years trying to create it with ink. Here, let me show you.”

  Grantaire pulled out his phone and after a quick search, pulled up the painting and offered it to Combeferre. The color was stunning, and he could see where Grantaire’s argument about the series was coming from. The woman was bent over in a pose that would normally be considered erotic, but in this case it wasn’t anywhere close to being sexual.

  “It _is_ beautiful, and I can understand your stance on it,” Combeferre acquiesced. As he passed the phone back to him, he couldn’t help but smile at Grantaire’s triumphant look.

  “Thank you.” He gave Combeferre a toothy grin, before turning back to his phone. “I seriously wish that Degas used the color more often. But look at _The Milkmaid_ by Vermeer. The color of her skirt is breath-taking.” He passed the phone back to him. “I would give my arm and my leg to recreate that color in ink.” He sighed. “But there are dreams that cannot be-”

  Combeferre couldn’t stop smiling; his absolute favorite people were the ones who couldn’t hide how happy it made them to talk about what they’re passionate about. It didn’t matter that Grantaire had dominated the majority of the conversation; he honestly could imagine himself listening to Grantaire ramble for days on end. He was just so _joyful_.

  “Christ, this is like last week all over again.” Grantaire laughed, slapping a hand on the table. “Here I am, just rambling on and on with no regard to you. I’m so rude; my foster mother would have my hide. Please put an end to this and tell me about yourself. You know far too much about my job and my interests, and I know nothing of yours. All I know is that you have excellent taste in literature,” He paused to wink and pick up a sarcastic tone, “And in men. But please, I’m interested in you, I swear.”

  Combeferre smiled, “I actually do not have a job at the moment. I’m getting my doctorate in neuroscience-”

  Grantaire groaned and stood up, throwing his hands in the air dramatically. “Oh, _fuck me_. How did I end up on a date with a shitting genius-”

  “I’m not a genius,” Combeferre interrupted, but Grantaire paid him no mind.

  “This cannot be borne; a scientist. Not just _any_ scientist, but one who’s focus is on a really horribly specialized field. I knew you were smart but seriously? A doctorate!? _Neuroscience!?_ Goodbye, I am done.” Grantaire grabbed his jacket, acting like he was going to walk out.

  “You are one of the most dramatic men I have ever met, and believe me when I say that I am constantly surrounded by an _incredibly_ dramatic group of people. One even teaches theater, for Christ’s sake.” Combeferre laughed. “Please sit back down.”

  “Why should I?” Grantaire asked, putting a hand to his heart, adopting a hurt expression. “You said I was too dramatic; I don’t need that kind of negativity in my life.”

  Combeferre crossed his legs, looking thoroughly nonplussed. “Because I’d very much like to kiss you, if you wouldn’t mind too much.”

  Grantaire was silent for a moment, before slapping a hand to his forehead. “ _Seriously?_ ” He seemed to ask himself, making a frustrated sound in the back of his throat. “’I’d very much like to kiss you _if you wouldn’t mind too much_ ,’ he says.  What the actual fuck. I’m seriously done with you. This is too much. How are you a real person? I don’t believe you’re real. You’re an evil fairy here to steal my soul, aren’t you? That’s the only plausible explanation for this situation.”

  “I’m not an evil fairy, I assure you.” He snorted, eyes sparkling with amusement. “So may I?”

  “May you _what?_ ” Grantaire asked in exasperation.

  “Kiss you.”

  Grantaire stared at him for a moment, not quite believing what he heard. Sure, he could see why people would be interested in him, he wasn’t _too_ awfully unattractive, he could talk about anything at great length, and he was extremely funny, (at least in his own mind; the quality of his humor could be up for debate.) but Combeferre seemed miles out of his league. “Are you really asking for _permission_ to kiss me?”

  Combeferre smiled, recognizing the fact that in no way was that a rejection of his offer. “Consent is incredibly important.”

  “If you don’t realize how embarrassingly much I want to kiss you, you must not be as smart as your fancy degree would imply.” Grantaire laughed, leaning over so his face was inches away from his. He held his hand to one of Combeferre’s cheeks and paused simply to watch the flutter of his eyelashes and his growing blush for moment; just taking him in before leaning in and kissing him with a smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Let it be known that I am ashamed of the title. I hate puns. (No I don't.)  
> also the cards I had in mind were based off of these: rnusichettas.tumblr.com/post/74356928350
> 
> I'm [romanifeuilly](http://romanifeuilly.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.


End file.
